I don’t have much of anything right now, except a truckload of feelings. I’m finding the metaphor of being underwater pretty accurate. Unlike Sean, I happen to hate being underwater.
I’m a fairly private person- another way Sean and I differed. We did, however, share a value of allowing people into your life, your process.
It’s a vulnerable place that is so uncomfortable for me, but I see a lot of good in letting people in. So this blog is a struggle for me of how much to share, how much is ok for people to know about how I’m doing, how I feel the need to wrap it up in pretty packaging. It’s also a place for me to process and get things out. If I can do that while letting people in, asking for prayer, and maybe encouraging someone else out there, I’d say its worth it.
A few weeks ago I started walking. A lot. San Francisco is an amazingly eclectic place with changes of scenery, terrain, and culture every few blocks. As two-by-fours of feelings hit me more and more with each passing week/day/hour, a restless urge takes over and walking provides a quiet space to think and feel and also to be occasionally distracted by the city.
I shared with my friend and housemate Melissa that I’m starting to get why people run for catharsis. (I’m not a runner… If you didn’t know). Within hours of this conversation, I had new running shoes, athletic pants, and a commitment to run with Melissa every morning until she leaves next week for New York. Our first run was all the way down Market street from our house, ending at the Ferry Building on the bay. 2.5 miles.
We walked/ran/walked/ran- passing vendors setting up the farmers market at Civic Center and the stores opening up at the mall downtown, weaving in and out of nicely dressed people rushing to the MUNI station. I was out of breath and tired by the time we made it to the pier. After buying a bottle of water, we found a bench facing the bay and sat.
For a little while.
Watching small waves rise and fall. Hearing the water, feeling the mist of the foggy morning. Rise and fall.
My life for the majority of the last year has felt a lot like walking running walking running; through cancer and chemo and radiation and hospitals and doctors and drugs and sickness and death. And here I am, at the end of the run. Tired. Watching the waves rise and fall. I’m not sure where to go from here, how long I will be sitting here, what’s next or when I will get off this bench.
But I do know that tomorrow morning at 5:45 am I will drag myself out of bed to run with Melissa- not crazy about the exhaustive nature of our quality time- but thankful for the chance to better capture what’s been going on internally for me.
Still, all I can do is sit here in this two-by-four moment, experiencing a stillness and an ocean of waves.